


Le naïf

by Cerberusia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Oxford, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3476732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No problem," says the gargoyle after a moment, "my fault really." He pauses. "Get you a drink?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le naïf

**Author's Note:**

> All my canon-era WiPs are refusing to cooperate, so please have this frothy modern!AU to tide you over. Modern!Enjolras is a tricky bugger to get a hold on, and I feel I should excuse myself by pointing out that he is younger here than he is in canon.

Enjolras is drunk. He's nineteen, he's just started uni in a foreign country, he's at a small gathering of friends which turned into a small party and he's drunk. He'd picked this as a good time to test his limits in a safe environment; but now there are people here he doesn't know. Not too many, though, and they all seem to be friends of his friends, so he feels okay about it.

There's no music or dancing, just people drifting around Courfeyrac's spacious flat and talking to each other with increasing volume as they get steadily more intoxicated. There's a jovial atmosphere about, and Enjolras feels relaxed, loose-limbed. He's not drunk enough to sway, just slightly past tipsy, but there's a definite swing in his step. This is a comfortable level of intoxication.

He's contemplating whether he wants to push his luck with another glass when a passing guy nudges his elbow. They both turn to say sorry, then pause. Enjolras takes a second look because this fellow is _phenomenally_ ugly; he can't claim to usually notice whether people are attractive or not, but it's not every day you meet someone who looks like a gargoyle.

The gargoyle, meanwhile, is staring at Enjolras with a look of rapture on his face. He has startlingly blue eyes, which in any other face would be attractive but only serve to make him look more peculiar.

"No problem," says the gargoyle after a moment, "my fault really." He pauses. "Get you a drink?"

Tentativeness doesn't usually touch Enjolras' heart, which he's been reliably informed is made of stone, so it's probably the alcohol that makes him say,

"Sure," and watch the gargoyle's face light up. He allows himself to be guided to the kitchen, his companion's hand hovering over but not quite touching the small of his back, and spares only a brief thought for what a terribly bad idea this is.

By the time the drink is finished, Enjolras is well past tipsy. The liquid courage is what makes him at last take Grantaire - his companion, who apparently goes by his last name, which suits Enjolras just fine since he does the same - up on the offer that's been lingering in his eyes and the touch of his hand, unvoiced, for the past half-hour which Grantaire has spent telling Enjolras outrageous stories about their mutual friends and staring at his mouth.

Grantaire is momentarily startled when Enjolras leans over, plants his hands on his shoulders to steady himself and proceeds to kiss him studiously, but he responds quickly and enthusiastically. He's clearly much more experienced than Enjolras, which admittedly wouldn't be hard, and Enjolras is happy to let him take over. He's pretty happy with everything right now, actually, even Grantaire's tongue in his mouth, which in the abstract he'd never understood the appeal of; but now it wetly traces his top lip, his body responds.

They're still in Courfeyrac's kitchen and anyone could walk in on them - and this is a small flat so maybe someone already has and they haven't noticed - but Enjolras doesn't care. They aren't doing anything indecent, though Enjolras kind of wants to; Grantaire's breath sometimes hitches and his hands clench in the material of Enjolras' shirt, but they stay at his waist and on his back.

Enjolras has never made out with anybody before, so he doesn't know whether there's some kind of commonly-accepted point where it's considered acceptable to start making sexual overtures; so, since Grantaire clearly knows what he's doing, Enjolras lets him set the pace. Grantaire squirms a bit, but doesn't try to grope Enjolras or anything, so Enjolras assumes that sex isn't on offer right now. That's okay. Everything's okay. He's really quite drunk.

At last, Grantaire lets him go.

"I think it's past your bed time, Antinous," he says. Enjolras is momentarily confused, because his name isn't Antinous and he wants to keep kissing Grantaire - and then he yawns, and realises that the alcohol's other famed effect is kicking in.

"Here," says Grantaire to someone over his shoulder, and Enjolras is being handed over to someone else. "I think this one's yours."

"So he is," says the man now supporting Enjolras with an arm around his waist, with an edge of laugher in his voice. Courfeyrac. "I'd thank you for looking after him, but I think the pleasure was yours." Enjolras is swung around and the two of them start towards the door. "Goodnight, Grantaire - try not to fall in any ditches on your way home, hmm? I don't want a repeat of last month."

They make their way down the corridor to the sound of Grantaire insisting that this is a filthy lie. Enjolras, remembering his manners, also remembers to call back:

"Goodnight, Grantaire."

Grantaire falls silent a moment, then says, gently,

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

It's a shame, Enjolras thinks vaguely as Courfeyrac drags out his spare mattress and steadies him as he takes off his jeans for sleep, that Grantaire didn't want to sleep with him: he's never tried sex, having neither the time nor the inclination, but he's never tried intoxication or sloppy kissing before for the same reasons, and they turned out all right, so it might have been an interesting experience.

He obediently drinks the water Courfeyrac gives him, his mind still on other matters. It was a nice night, though: he tried new things, enjoyed them, and can now get on with the business of life - which involves neither alcohol nor physical intimacy - with a better understanding of why people enjoy both.

Courfeyrac puts out the light and Enjolras snuggles into his blankets. Alcohol already bearing him into hazy half-dreams, he spares a thought for Grantaire: they hadn't spoken of politics, but with his sharp tongue, kind spirit and taste in friends, it's clearly only a matter of time before he's 'collected', as Courfeyrac puts it, as a potential Les Amis recruit.

He does fencing apparently, though on different days from Enjolras, so maybe Enjolras could swap a session next week and approach him himself, feel him out his political leanings at the same time as thanking him for being an obliging experiment and kill two birds with one stone.

On Courfeyrac's spare mattress, drunk and on the edge of unconsciousness, Enjolras can't see anything wrong with this plan. Nor does he see anything wrong with it the next morning, after two Neurofen and a lot of black tea with sugar. He'd ask Courfeyrac for more information on Grantaire, but he's already off at a nine o'clock lecture and Enjolras has fencing at half ten. Never mind: it's only an expression of gratitude and an invitation to a meeting. It's not that difficult.

It is, he realises five days later, a little more difficult than he had anticipated.

"You'd like to thank me for being your 'experiment'," Grantaire repeats slowly. The smile he had when Enjolras accosted him after the session has faded.

"Yes," says Enjolras, recognising that Grantaire is upset but not quite able to grasp why. "I had no prior experience with physical intimacy, and thus no idea why people got so het up about it. The enjoyable experience I had with you gave some explanation."

"I see," says Grantaire after a moment. His face is doing a strange thing. "Would you like to do it again?"

"I don't think so," says Enjolras - then adds, thoughtfully, "maybe occasionally, when intoxicated. But I wouldn't seek out either as a recreational activity. Actually," he adds before they can get sidetracked, "I was planning to invite you to a meeting this Thursday."

"A meeting?" Grantaire squints at him for a moment, but his face clears in recognition before Enjolras can explain. "Oh, this is the society that Courfeyrac and Bahorel and Bossuet and all that lot are involved in, isn't it? That's very kind of you, but I regretfully have to tell you that I have absolutely no political interests whatsoever, much less revolutionary ones." He pauses, and seems to reconsider. "But if you're asking me to come, then I'll come."

"Please do," says Enjolras sincerely, "and I'll do my best to change your mind." Grantaire's eyes crinkle when he smiles: it doesn't make him any more handsome, but it does give him a very friendly, approachable air, which is a trait Enjolras has always appreciated in others precisely because he doesn't share it.

"You're on," he says, and writes down the directions Enjolras gives him on his arm - The Mitre, 8pm this Thursday - with a flourish. His handwriting is surprisingly attractive. "Art student," he says when Enjolras comments on it. "Got interested in calligraphy for about a month a couple of years ago, and I guess the thing about making your letters regular stuck."

And that's that: they cycle together to The Plain, then split as Grantaire heads for Cowley and Enjolras continue over Magdalen Bridge. In the distance, Tom Tower is chiming twelve o'clock; an hour and a half well-spent, he thinks. Grantaire may claim to have no political interests and he may even be right, but few men are truly apolitical at heart. Come Thursday night, Enjolras and his comrades will endeavour to prove this to him.


End file.
